Oktoberfest '07 Entry, In A Foxhole by greencat3

[janus-006.livejournal.com]

Title: In A Foxhole
Author: greencat3
Beta (if applicable): None, because I suck. This is my excuse for the craptasticness within.
Word Count: 2,145
Rating: PG-13 for language and violence
Character(s): Alec Trevelyan, Javert
Pairing(s) (if applicable): Alec/Javert, but only if you squint, hahahahaha. Also because thinking about it too hard causes a minor mental meltdown for me.
Summary: Alec just has one brilliant plan after another.
Notes (if applicable): Stupid plotless POS written to deal with testing stress. Because – ohshit! The contest ends tomorrow! And the contest is much more important than Trig. And apologies to bubonicwoodchuk if my Javert sucks.



There were times when Alec Trevelyan, ex-double-0 agent, eponymous head of the Janus Crime Syndicate, and current mental patient, was glad that he’d befriended Javert. Well, okay. Maybe ‘befriended’ wasn’t quite the right word to use. At any rate, the two of them had entered into a sort of uneasy alliance, and, although by all rights they should hate each other’s guts, they’d gotten along pretty smoothly, aside, of course, for the occasional dispute about methods.

This was, most definitely, one of those times. It always paid to have someone watching your back, really watching it, and Javert’s sense of honor wouldn’t let him abandon his groupmate in the middle of the night.

Or so Alec hoped.

Perhaps taking on the fire-breathing lizard hadn’t been such a good idea after all. He’d heard them called salamanders (it was amazing what you could pick up if you just listened). The lizard had been eyeing him and Javert with beady little eyes like polished obsidian, and Trevelyan was suddenly very glad he wasn’t alone.

“I’m going to kill it,” he murmured to Javert, his lips barely moving. He hoped the creature was too stupid to understand human speech. “Keep it distracted and I’ll stab it in the neck.”

The Inspector’s only response was the very slightest of nods. The creature’s skin glowed like a dying ember in the near pitch-darkness of the Institute. “On my count,” Trevelyan said, keeping his eyes fixed on where he was going to attack, and remembering that he’d said those exact same words less than a week ago, when he hadn’t needed to worry about fire or needles or horrendously disfigured things coming after him in the night. “Three. Two. One!”

Javert’s bat struck the lizard’s legs as he yelled out furiously. The dull-witted salamander turned its head to him and hissed, rather like a cat, then tried to breathe a stream of flames in the direction of its attacker. It was then that Trevelyan struck, diving onto the distracted beast and using his steak knife to slash at its neck. Too late did he notice the slight glistening of the creature’s skin, meaning that it had secreted something that would soon probably prove to be either poisonous or otherwise painful. After a few ineffective tries, he managed to cut the salamander’s throat while Javert clubbed at it with the baseball bat.

As the creature thrashed around, drowning as its lungs filled with its own fiery blood, Trevelyan rolled off of it, and he immediately wished that he hadn’t. He’d tried to smack the floor with his forearms, as combat training had drilled into him, but the impact had made his arms smart even more. “Son of a bitch!” he yelped, trying to get up without using his arms.

“Don’t tell me that you hurt yourself in that little drop to the floor, Trevelyan,” Javert said.

Some days, Alec Trevelyan wanted to kill the Inspector.

“Ow…fuck,” he said, using his less-burned left hand to awkwardly hold the flashlight. Now he could see his wounds. There were blisters from where the salamander’s body temperature had seared his skin all on its own, and, layered on top of those, great raw patches of flesh that could only have been caused by acid. Wonderful. “I don’t think that was a very good idea, actually,” he said, trying to make light of the situation.

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who suggested – what was it? Leaping on it and cutting its throat?” Javert somehow managed to convey disdain and humor at the same time. “A thief’s tactic, perfect for robbing some poor soul of his life and valuables, but less suited for killing salamanders.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Trevelyan said, reaching into his discarded pillowcase for precisely what he required. “Did you get hurt?”

“No, you were the only one foolish enough to get injured.”

“Really?” Trevelyan asked, looking up. “Your bat’s smoldering. You might want to take care of that.”

As Javert smothered the end of his scorched baseball bat, Trevelyan finally managed to close his injured hands around one of the tubes of burn cream he’d pilfered a few nights ago. He’d had no idea why he’d taken so much of it, but since that ghost had created a shoulder flambé for him, he’d figured that the theft was justified and grabbed as much as he could carry. The tube’s ridged cap seemed to mock him; it would easily tear the tender skin on his hands. He stuck the cap under the hem of his shirt and used the cotton as protection. The cap came off with ease, and he placed it on the floor next to him. As though it were soap or sunblock, he took a liberal amount and slathered it all over the affected areas.

It was then that he noticed that, aside from the bloody handprints now covering the bottom of his shirt, there were areas that had been obviously burned away by either the acid of the heat. Luckily, none of that had gotten through to his skin; he supposed he’d thank God for small favors. That still didn’t change the fact that, even with the burn cream on, his arms were just about totally useless.

Trevelyan re-capped the tube, tossed it into his pillowcase, and walked over to the now-dead salamander. He ripped the knife from its neck contemptuously. The blade was a little melted, but still serviceable – he switched it into his left hand, along with his flashlight. It hurt like hell to hold anything in his right hand for too long, and his left hand was in somewhat better shape. Finally, he scooped up the pillowcase and turned to Javert.

“I need a new weapon,” he said, showing Javert the half-melted blade, now more resembling a piece of modern art than a kitchen tool. “Where’d you get the bat?”

“In the activities shed,” Javert informed him, staring at his half-burned comrade.

“Mm. Anything lurking out there in the darkness?” Trevelyan asked rhetorically.

“Usually.” Apparently Javert had either not taken the question as rhetorical or just wanted to piss him off, Alec couldn’t decide which.

“Great,” he said, putting on a faltering smile. “Let’s go, then.”

*

The recreational fields were decidedly spooky at night. Aside from the occasional beam of light from another group of marauding patients trying to procure some sort of advantage over the monsters, the fields were entirely dark. Any sound or hint of movement made the two men, jumpy already, scan their immediate area for an impending attack.

Neither of them dared make a sound, in case they alerted one of the lurking hellbeasts to their presence. Their only hope was to get to the shed, get a bat, and retreat back to the ‘safety’ of the Institute. At least in there, Trevelyan thought darkly, you could conceal yourself. He hated being out on the field, so completely and totally exposed. All of his spy sensibilities warned him against doing exactly this sort of thing? What was he doing? Disregarding the very instincts and trained responses that had helped him survive for half his life? Yes, that sounded about right.

What in the name of God and all things holy was he doing?!

A twig snapped; both Trevelyan and Javert spun around to find its source, and nearly crashed into each other. Mercifully, they managed to keep from crying out in shock, merely picking themselves up off the ground and pretending with a catlike air that nothing had happened. The situation was almost ridiculous.

Another sound came from nearby, the sound of small quick feet on the damp grass. I’m imagining things, Trevelyan thought desperately, trying to ignore the fact that his hands and arms were really beginning to smart unbearably now. He made a note to himself to wear his coat out at night from now on. That might provide some sort of fire barrier.

Again the sound of running feet, and closer now. Now he was sure he wasn’t imagining it. He was about to turn to Javert and ask if he’d heard the same, but Javert was seeking the runner already, glancing around the field.

Two red pinpoints of light in the distance caught Trevelyan’s attention, and he prodded Javert. The Frenchman turned and glared at him, and the ex-agent gestured to the lights. Doubtless it was something that had come to kill them. Naturally.

I fucking hate this place.

Then two more red dots appeared, and two more after that. They started to get closer, slowly at first, then gaining boldness. Finally, one of the red-eyed creatures stepped into the moonlight, a glistening thread of saliva trailing from its ghastly jaw, and Trevelyan’s blood nearly froze.

Dogs.

The fact that these were no ordinary dogs was not what fazed him; it was the fact that they were wolflike canines, and they looked especially mean. Back in ’84, when he and James were on a mission together, they’d encountered some nasty Dobermans. They’d been leaving, high on the thought of success, when someone – they never did figure out who – inadvertently tripped one of the alarm sensors.

And then came the dogs.

Alec had been able to clear the fence with surprising alacrity, but James had not been quite so lucky. His once-best-friend had escaped with his life and his limbs, but his left leg had borne a striking resemblance to raw hamburger. Trevelyan had needed to kick the snarling mutt in the face to get it to release James’ leg. Twice.

He’d had no desire to experience being snacked on by a psychotic dog in 1984, and he had no desire to become a canine canapé now. “Javert?” he said quietly.

“Yes?” Javert replied, keeping his voice just as low.

“The odds do not appear to be in our favor.”

“I can see that.” The reply came through gritted teeth.

Trevelyan looked around. The shed wasn’t too far away – it would provide temporary shelter at best, upon which time he could find a weapon. Of course, a weapon would do him no good unless he could actually wield it.

“Shed. Run. Now. Now!” he said urgently, and took off towards the activities shed. Javert was not far behind. The dogs, seeing that their prey had chosen to run and thus initiate the chase, were close on their heels.

Trevelyan was first to reach the shed, his lungs burning. Unwilling to drop anything, he tried the shed’s door with his right hand. Glancing back at the rapidly-approaching dogs, he nearly yelled. Locked! “It’s locked!” he called to Javert.

“Move!” The self-hating Brit needed no second urging. The slightly scorched baseball bat came crashing down upon the rusty padlock, breaking it easily. Both men scrambled inside the shed and leaned against the door with all their weight. There was a thump from the other side, then another, followed by baying and a scrabbling of claws and teeth on the door.

“Brilliant idea, Trevelyan, getting us trapped in a shed with rabid dogs on the outside just waiting to tear us into shreds. You’re just full of them tonight, aren’t you?” Javert said scathingly.

“Like we had any other choice,” Alec snarled, feeling vaguely offended by Javert’s needling. The beam of his flashlight darted around the small shed, and he picked up a baseball bat that lay within easy reach. The grain of the wood was murder on his hand’s recent burns, but he had to take what he could get.

Slam. The dogs hadn’t given up, nor were they likely to anytime soon. After all, they had time on their side. Alec and Javert did not.

Suddenly, Trevelyan was back ten years ago, looking at the latest gadget from Q’s lab, a travel-sized Bible that hid a cache of plastic explosives.

‘When they spoke of the fury of the Lord, they weren’t kidding,’ he had remarked after seeing the C4 Bible in action.

‘Well, you know what they say, 006. There are no atheists in a foxhole.’

Trevelyan had never really grasped that concept until now. He dropped the half-useless knife into his pillowcase, then tucked it under his arm. “Cover me,” he said, and tried to open the door.

Javert blocked him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He rarely swore. This was bad.

Trevelyan squared his shoulders. “Fixing this mess I got us into. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment with God.”

“You’re mad.”

“Never argued that point, did I?” He pushed past Javert, the bat in his hand and death in his eyes. “Come on, you sons of bitches –”

*

Trevelyan had never been so thankful for the abrupt coming of dawn. He still hurt from the fire and the acid, but at least he wasn’t dog meat.

And now, on the plus side, he had a baseball bat.